Two Poems by Meghann Plunkett

NOTHING IN THIS HAND & OTHER TRICKS

I hated the silver dollar gamepulled from behind the earand a tiny feigned surprisesteaming from the meat of me.What hasn’t changed? A housetrimmed in lemondrop, the rateat which something falls, anklescrossed while sipping tea. Butthat’s the game. You tell meto touch my toes and the neighbor’sdog begins to howl. You tell meto wrap your belt around my throatand sirens from the window.I know what is expected. The waya town shrinks in a rearviewmirror, a tapering in of the waist.Thank you, thank you, thank you.And I was made for the slow reveal.The rabbit from a hat, clenchedin a fist. The assistant who catchesthe bullet in her teeth. Over andover and over again.

ELEGY FOR WHAT SHE IS

I drank until the world turned like an egg timer & I saw my mother in everything:a discarded chest of drawers on the street, the graffiti caramelized on concrete,a crushed mouse in an unbaited trap. An empty bottle of vodka & that’smy mother. A soft burning at the back of the throat raised meuntil I understood how to speak a lexicon of sorry. Every morning,five song birds broken at the base of the big window& that’s my genetic code. She is a country I can’t leave. I am crowdedwith mothers. The world filled withnot-her. A carnival-heart cobbled together. She is a picket-line of regret. I mistook her for a barstool. I mistook herfor the word please. I open my mouth and cough up scraps of herwedding dress. I am just her idea that was allowed a spine.